They Have to Eat at Some Point
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: He promised breakfast. She promised a second show. Follows 'Idir Aisling'. Murphy / OC, rated M.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So, you may have noticed that my posts are taking a bit longer than usual - that's because of my little guy, Archer. He's the boss of me for right now so Murphy has had to take a back seat. Anyway, here's the fourth in the Murphy / Wren arc. Again, it can be read as a standalone, but it picks up where Idir Aisling leaves off. Thanks to my loyal few who read and review. Oh, and there is a Connor / Pam series in the making!_

_I own nothing save for Wren and Pam and anything else that Troy Duffy didn't create. I'll keep writing and posting my 'M' rated stuff until admin sees fit to wipe me from existence. But I won't give up easily!_

* * *

"Connor, ye cheeky fuck, I know yer awake," Murphy growled as soon as Wren closed the door behind her.

The lighter haired twin cringed at his brother's tone and effected a slow waking. "Hmm?" he mumbled, turning slightly from facing the wall.

With a growl, Murphy leaned down and clipped Connor across the back of his head with an open palm. "Ye fuckin' perv. Ye were awake the whole time, weren't ya?"

There was a hint of mirth in Murphy's voice and Connor dared to peek over his shoulder, trying his very best to look sheepish. "I didn't…she just…" Connor sighed and rolled to his back. "Hail Mary, full of grace," he muttered. A second later he propped himself up on his elbows and stared Murphy straight in the eye. "Yer tellin' me that if Pam and ye were in the same position that ye wouldn't do anythin'?"

The darker twin managed a sneer for a few seconds before his grin split through. "Still doesn't change the fact that yer a fuckin' perv, Conn." He smacked Connor upside the head again, this time for good measure, laughing as his brother protested loudly.

"I take it you two made up, then?" Connor said a moment later, after fishing his cigarettes from his discarded jeans and lighting one. He threw the pack to Murphy, who settled on the edge of his own mattress and lit up as well.

"Aye," Murphy practically sighed. "An' if that's the way we make up after every fight, I'm thinkin' I'll piss her off more often."

Connor scowled, exhaling smoke. "Lucky fuckin' bastard. I piss Pam off and she withholds sex for weeks at a time. You piss Wren off and she screws you six ways from Sunday."

The twins smiled at each other and smoked in silence for a spell. "I wasn't thinkin' of her, if that's what yer worried about," Connor said a little while later.

"Really?" Murphy raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his brother's choice of conversation. "An' who was it that you _were_ thinkin' 'bout, Conn?"

Connor's cheekbones darkened and he avoided Murphy's steady blue gaze as he backpedalled. "Well, I did – but not just about her!"

Murphy's body coiled, preparing to pounce. "Ye better start talkin' quick, Conn," he growled lowly.

"I was thinkin' 'bout her…an' Pam."

Murphy sputtered, choking on smoke, and coughed for a spell before fixing watering eyes on Connor. "Her an' _Pam_?" he repeated, incredulously.

Connor scowled. "As if you've never thought about it," he defended.

"I don't think so," Murphy insisted, lighting another cigarette with the glowing butt of the previous one. He paused a moment and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

Connor knew his brother well enough to know when the gears were turning. And if his twin was _anything_ like himself, Connor knew all too well the types of images currently flitting through Murphy's head. "Yer thinkin' it now," Connor pointed out with a smug grin.

"Aye," Murphy shrugged, standing from his mattress.

"And?" Connor prompted, wanting to know how his brother perceived it.

Murphy shrugged again. "I'm strangely comfortable wit' it."

* * *

The twins stopped outside of Galway Grocery, finishing the last of their cigarettes. Connor peered at the sign and then afforded Murphy a glance before he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "What are we doin' here?"

Murphy gestured to the sign. "Grocery shoppin'," he answered.

Connor rolled his eyes and fought the urge to pop his brother upside the head. "I can see that, ye fuckin' twerp. I mean, what are we doin' grocery shoppin'?" He fixed Murphy with a curious gaze. "Yer not…gonna _cook_ fer her, are ye?" He didn't wait for Murphy's answer, the blush was enough. "Jesus Christ, Murph, ye cook fer her once, she's gonna expect it all the bloody time! She should be the one cookin' fer you…" he trailed off, his blue eyes widening. "Christ, you're in a feckin' _relationship_, Murph. Like, a commitment." He groaned for added effect.

Murphy popped Connor in the shoulder twice with a fist. "Lord's feckin' name," he grumbled. "An' it's not like that. She lets me spend the night in an amazing feckin' loft, sleep in her bed on her soft sheets, shower with her hot water, drink her whiskey…it's the least I can do."

"What's the least you can do?" Connor asked.

Murphy popped him in the shoulder again. "Pay the fuck attention, Conn. She lets me stay over, I cook her breakfast." He took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it, reading the words scribbled there.

"What's this?" Connor snatched the paper away and held it to read. "Buttermilk, flour, sour cream, potatoes…this is Ma's recipe for boxty!" Connor crowed triumphantly as he looked at Murphy. "How did that song go again? 'Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan, if ye can't make boxty, ye'll never get a man!'" Connor dissolved into a fit of laughter as he tossed the shopping list back at his brother.

Murphy snatched it and snarled at Connor. "All right, feck off wit' ye. Ye want to know _why_ Pam shuts ye down we ye two fight?" He didn't wait for Connor's response. "It's because yer obviously not meeting _all_ her needs, Conn." He shoved the list back in his pocket and pushed the door to the grocer open, leaving Connor to gape at his back.

"Oi!" Connor called as he dashed to keep up. "What the feck is that suppos'ta mean, Murph? She wants breakfast, she should ask!"

Murphy rolled his eyes at his brother – it was times like these that Murphy was convinced he was the older of the two. "She shouldn't _have_ to ask, Conn. How long have ye been datin' her for?"

Connor grumbled something that sounded like 'four months', but it could have been 'seems like for months'. Either way, Murphy shook his head at his hapless brother and fished out his list once more. "Surprise her," he urged.

Connor stared at the list in Murphy's hand for a moment before he snatched it back. "Shut the feck up," he growled. "And grab a fecking hand cart. Looks like we're making mashed potatoes tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

He showed up at the bar just before midnight, and outside it had stared raining hard and cold. Stepping into Grayson's, Murphy combed his hands through his dark hair to rid it of some of moisture gathered there. He rubbed his hands together briskly and moved into the crowded pub. The patrons were drunk to varying degrees, but the vibe was good, and he spotted an empty stool at the bar, close to the taps. With a grin he set up house, shrugging off his damp coat and setting his cigarettes and lighter on the bar. He slung the rucksack from his shoulder and tucked it under the bar. He felt a little silly carting mashed potatoes and buttermilk through Southie, but he didn't want to have to double back to the flat to pick up things for breakfast in the morning, so he bit the bullet and loaded up his pack with everything he'd need.

An ashtray and a coaster appeared before him. "What can I get you?"

Murphy looked up at the masculine voice and frowned, quickly scanning the bar. "Eh… is Wren here?"

The guy behind the bar chuckled and began pulling a glass of Guinness. "You must be Murphy." He set the beer before the Irishman, earning him a curious look. "I'm Bryant." He held out his hand the two shook briefly. "Wren's on break," he continued, checking his watch. "Should be back in about fifteen minutes."

Murphy nodded and raised the pint that had been set before him. "Guess I'll find something to pass the time." He grinned and took a healthy swig.

Bryant chuckled. "Let me know if you need anything else. I'm sure Wren will _take care_ of you when she gets back," he added with a crooked smile.

"Watch yerself, mate," Murphy countered with a raised eyebrow. "That's me girl yer talkin' 'bout." He lit a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke with his own crooked smile.

"Who's your girl?" Wren piped up as she appeared at Murphy's elbow. She plucked the cigarette from Murphy's hand and took a drag.

Murphy turned and took a long look at Wren. She wasn't dressed as fancy as she was last night, but the dark denim skirt hugged her hips and thighs wonderfully, even if he thought it was a tad too short. Her top was ivory, draping at the neck to show off her amazing collarbones, and she wore flat soled boots that went just over her knees. Murphy didn't miss the way Bryant gave her a once over (probably not that first for that evening), but played it cool, and instead grinned wickedly as he ticked his head back towards a booth of women on the other side of the bar.

"The redhead," he answered cheekily. "She's cute, aye?"

Wren rolled her eyes and crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray with some force. "Oh yeah?"

Murphy nodded, sucking the beer foam from his upper lip. "Aye." He winked saucily and reached for another cigarette.

* * *

She didn't miss the way Murphy's eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on her hemline, but he kept his head and didn't go caveman on her – points for him. But the cheeky remark about the redhead across the bar? Wren couldn't ignore it, and wouldn't. She smiled wanly at Murphy and proceeded to turn on her heel and head straight for the booth, ignoring her name being called. She could feel his eyes on her back – no doubt beginning to darken as the open back of her blouse was revealed. She wasn't wearing a bra – again – and she could almost hear the wheels turning in Murphy's dark head.

The redhead in the booth was a regular, had some job or another downtown but liked to 'slum it' – her words, not Wren's – and teeter on the fine line that separated downtown Boston from the rest of the city. She came in almost every other night with her coven of bitches and drove Wren absolutely bonkers. They were never rude to her directly, but she knew well enough when people were talking about her. She also knew that the redhead was an outrageous and horrendous flirt when she'd had about four drinks. And since she only drank gimlets and Wren had made three of them so far, she guessed that the redhead was well on her way to being all kinds of fun.

"Ladies, how are we doing this evening?" Wren called out as she approached the table. She took a quick check of empties and then smiled at the women gathered in the booth. Christ (Lord's name! She heard Murphy's voice in her head scolding her), they all looked alike. Other than different hair colors, they all had the same skinny jeans, blousy tops, big jewellery, and bitchy, pinched in faces.

There was a chorus of enthusiastic 'great' and 'fabulous' and Wren had to fight to not roll her eyes at the nasally tone of the blonde that seemed attached at the hip to the redhead.

"Can we get you another round here?" Wren began collecting the empty glasses from the table and decided to sweeten the deal. "On the house – you ladies always grace us with your presence, it's the least we can do for such great regulars." She almost choked on the words spewing from her mouth, but she maintained her cool exterior.

Like anyone would pass down free booze, especially after that ass kissing. Wren took note of the beverage requests and smiled sweetly at the booth. "Be right back with those!"

She gave Murphy a wide berth as she made her way back to the bar. It would do no good for him to be pawing her; her plan would unravel before it was even executed. Instead she gave him a ghost of a smile at the curious look he was shooting her and stepped back behind the bar, depositing glasses and pulling clean ones to make her order.

"What are you up to?" Bryant muttered as he pretended to be looking for something on the top shelf of liquor bottles.

"Nothing!" Wren replied brightly.

"Bullshit, you avoid Genie and her minions on most days and now you willingly throw yourself into their midst?"

Wren shrugged it off. "Just helping out. I know that we're short staffed tonight. Hand me the Hendricks, will you?"

Bryant studied her for a moment, knowing damn well that his co worker was up to something devious. He said nothing for the moment. "I think your Irishman needs another beer," he said finally, before moving off.

Wren spun towards the bar and leaned back against the counter as her gaze met Murphy's. Bryant was right; the glass of Guinness sitting with Murphy was more than two thirds done. She sauntered to the taps and reached for a new glass from the cooler.

"Was it something I said, girl?" Murphy chuckled as he watched her pour the beer.

Wren shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about," she answered lightly.

Murphy's brow furrowed. "Something wrong?"

Ah, there it was, that bruised male ego – he was obviously picking up on her slightly stung attitude but he wasn't sure why she was feeling that way. "No," Wren answered gently, giving him a warm smile as she set his beer in front of him. "I'm on the clock, Murph… I don't want to be too obvious about…you know," she finished, gesturing slightly between her and him.

Murphy processed her words and then nodded. "Aye."

"Is Connor out with Pam tonight?"

"They took over the loft at ten and kicked me out."

Wren gave him a pointed stare. "You've been wandering about South Boston for almost two hours in the pouring rain?"

Murphy shrugged. "Went to Books on Tenth – they're open late on the weekends. Grabbed a coffee at the diner round' the corner from there."

"Did you have dinner?"

Murphy frowned a bit. "Come to think of it…I don't think I did."

Wren sighed playfully and set a menu before him. She couldn't do to Murphy what she had planned if he had an empty stomach. "Let me know what you want. I'll put it on my tab."

"Ye don't have ta…" Murphy began arguing.

"But I can," Wren interrupted. She left the menu with Murphy. "I'll be back in a few, okay?"

She didn't wait for an answer and instead busied herself with finishing off her drink order and then loading a tray with the finished products. She winked at Murphy as she balanced it on her hand and made her way back out into the bar.

She caught the tail end of the conversation as she approached the booth: "…dark hair and pea coat at the bar?" She smiled inwardly. This would be almost too easy.

"I've never seen him in here before," one of the women answered. As if on cue, all heads turned to Genie.

"New to the bar? Think I should go introduce myself?" Genie cackled and began running fingers through her fine copper hair.

Wren interrupted with their drinks. "Anything else right now?"

"Who's the dark haired guy at the bar?" one of them piped up.

Wren cast a glance back over her shoulder and then looked back to the booth with a shrug. "He's been in a few times before. Always sits at the bar. Always orders Guinness." Wren picked up another empty glass that had appeared in her absence. "I don't think he's from around here – he's got an accent."

That did the trick – the interest of all the females in the booth was piqued and they immediately began talking amongst themselves, chattering about accents and how it was obvious he was Irish if he was ordering Guinness. There were comments about the breadth of his shoulders and his lean build and Wren felt the first stirrings of possessiveness. Maybe this was going to far…

"I'm going to go talk to him," Genie announced as she slid from the booth. She stood, tall and statuesque to Wren's sleek and slender build, and eyed the bartender for a moment. "Is he hot?"

Wren chewed her lip. Was the Pope Catholic? Yes, Murphy was hot, all kinds of, to be exact, but she couldn't offer that up, could she? "I guess." She affected boredom. "Dark hair, blue eyes, tattoos, accent."

"Oh, go for it, Genie! He's here alone, he hasn't spoken to anyone except for the bartenders since he got here."

Christ (Lord's Name! Murphy's voice yelled in her head again), these women were sharks! She wouldn't be surprised if they surrounded Murphy, circling, and each one darted in to take a bite. Genie was already stalking across the bar, a little shimmy in her hips with each step. Balancing her tray, Wren dashed to get a front row seat behind the bar.


	3. Chapter 3

He smelled the distinct waft of perfume before the voice grated down his spine. "Is there anyone sitting here?"

Murphy sucked in a lungful of smoke and glanced left, almost choking when the redhead he had flippantly referred to earlier slid into the empty stool next to him.

"Eh…" he stalled and flicked his gaze to Wren. The petite blonde seemed way too enthralled with opening a bottle of Bud but he thought he saw a tiny smile at the corner of her lips.

"I _had_ to get away from them," and she gestured to a booth full of twenty-something (probably closer to thirty) women. "sometimes I just need some time alone. Right?"

Ah, feckin' feck, what the hell had Wren gone and done? He looked over at the redhead again and offered a friendly smile, hoping she wouldn't read anything into it. "Aye," he nodded, before looking back to the flat screen showing the highlights from the UFC draw earlier.

"Is that an accent I detect?"

Did she actually think this would work? Mustering up his patience, Murphy turned on as much charm as he could and nodded. "T'is."

A manicured fingernail tapped the side of his almost empty glass. "And you're drinking Guinness. You must be Irish," the redhead deduced.

Where the feck is Conn when I need him? Murphy groused inwardly. The tart was master of the fecking obvious.

"Let's get you another one, shall we?" She balanced half on her stool and leaned over the bar, flagging down Wren. "Hey, can we get…" she turned and looked at him. "What's your name?"

"Murphy," he answered with a reserved sigh.

The redhead grinned and looked back at Wren who was talking animatedly with Bryant at the other end of the bar.

"Hey!" The redhead snapped, this time a little louder.

Murphy scowled at her rudeness.

Wren looked over to where the shout had come from and made her way over, shooting Murphy a pointed look before addressing the redhead. "What can I get for you?" she asked politely.

"Can I get another Guinness for Murphy?"

Wren's eyebrow shot up, obviously questioning the tone of voice from the redhead, and Murphy cleared his throat and added, "_Please_." He looked expectantly at the redhead.

The redhead rolled her eyes and for a second, Murphy contemplated smacking the petulant look from her face. Then the redhead sighed. "Please," she said, a little too forced for Murphy's liking. But she obviously didn't think too much into it because she was suddenly talking again, a mile a minute. "I'm Genie. Well, Genevieve, but everyone just calls me Genie."

Wren had sauntered over and was pulling a fresh pint of Guinness. She set it in front of Murphy and tapped the menu. "Anything to eat?"

"Angry burger," he said with a smile, looking directly at her, hoping that his ordering the burger slathered in chipotle and pepper jack cheese, and topped with jalapeños, conveyed the type of mood that was settling in on account of being ambushed by the redhead.

Wren smirked. "And how angry do you want that this evening, sir?" She drew out the 'sir' with a healthy dose of sarcasm and batted her lashes at him.

"Fecking pissed off, I reckon," Murphy replied with a growl.

Wren winked, making his blood boil. "No problem." She scribbled something down on a notepad and looked over at Genie. "Anything else?"

Genie, who had been watching the interaction between Murphy and the bartender, squared her shoulders and sat a little straighter. She could see a challenge when it was issued and the little blonde bartender was not being subtle about flirting with the Irishman at her side.

"_We're_ fine," she answered tightly.

Murphy shot one more murderous glare in Wren's direction and then he was left alone with Genie.

"So, you're Irish, where exactly are you from?"

"Clane," Murphy replied after a healthy sip of Guinness. "County Kildare, by way of Wicklow Hills."

Genie nodded. "My mother's father was born in Slane, County Meath."

Murphy had to smile – it wasn't often he ran into someone who knew their counties and towns. "You come by yer red hair honestly," he commented.

Genie giggled and twirled a lock of copper hair around her finger. "Actually, that's from my dad's dad – he's from Blackburn in West Lothain. That's Scotland."

"Is that so?" Murphy asked. He nodded to her half-full glass. "What's a lass who's half Irish and half Scottish doing drinkin'…" he wrinkled his nose as he inspected the glass's contents. "What the feck is that, lass?"

"It's a gimlet."

Murphy stared silently.

Genie giggled. "That's gin and lime juice."

"Sounds like you might be part English, too," he growled, waving to Bryant. "Can I get two shots of Jamieson, please. One for me, and one for the half Irish lass that doesn't know her drink."

* * *

Angry burger in hand, Wren made her way back to the bar. She'd been held up for a few helping out on the restaurant side of the business, long enough for Murphy's order to be finished. She rounded the corner, spotted Bryant rapidly filling orders and then scanned the stools for Murphy. He was there…and so was Genie, and in front of them was a collection of empty shot glasses.

As she slid behind the bar with the plate of burger and fries, she heard Genie's normally high-pitched giggle hit a new decibel as Murphy rumbled something in a more pronounced brogue than usual. They were leaning into each other far too close for Wren's liking. She more or less tossed the plate onto the bar in front of Murphy.

"One Angry Burger. Feckin' pissed off, just so you know."

Murphy fixed Wren with wide-eyed innocence and then dissolved into snorting laughter. "Ah, girl, just the way I like it."

"Good. That's how you're getting it."

This only made Murphy laugh harder and Wren's eyes cut to Genie who was currently trying to situate herself in Murphy's lap. Murphy, for his part, was doing his best to keep her at arm's length, but judging from the number of shot glasses before them they'd tucked into the Irish whiskey. Now, she knew Genie was a flirt at the best of times but Murphy plus Irish whiskey equalled panties being dropped faster than a hot potato. Wren fumed at them both, snagged the bottle of Jamieson that Bryant had stashed under the counter near the pair, and poured herself a healthy shot, downing it in one go. Then she did another, just because.

"Whoa, kiddo, you're still on duty," Bryant muttered as he passed her with a fistful of beer mugs. "And I'm getting backed up. Don't worry, I've kept an eye on them – Murphy's barely batted a lash at her. She's the one doing all the work."

Wren muttered something under her breath and marched back down to the end of the bar where the orders were piling up. She was fuming and beating herself up for the fact. Hadn't she been the one that had put this in motion? Sure, Murphy had been cheeky at the beginning of the evening. Getting Genie to hit on him was supposed to make her feel better – she wanted to see him sweat a little for such a flippant comment. A few shots of Jamieson had seen that backfire. Somehow, Genie had an in with Murphy and the two of them were acting like long lost friends. She'd never begrudge Murphy a friendship but Genie's hand was on his thigh now and dangerously close to entering non-friend territory.

"You're staring," Bryant mumbled as he sidled next to her and began pouring beer. "And quite possibly growling."

"You had to offer him Jamieson, didn't you?"

"Hey, he ordered it. Something about Genie being half Irish and not knowing how to drink."

Wren groaned. So _that_ was it. Anyone who was even a pinch Irish was okay in Murphy's book and he was so oblivious to his appeal (whereas Connor thought he was God's gift to women) that he was setting himself up for an awkward situation without even knowing it. He didn't seem too fazed by the hand on his thigh or the way Genie seemed to be leaning closer and closer to him. Wren's hand tightened on the bottle of Grey Goose she was holding.

"Hey, quit strangling the goose," Bryant interrupted her flaming thoughts. Then he laughed at his choice of words. "Strangle the goose…choke the chicken…ha!"

Wren slammed the bottle down and the sound of it brought Murphy's head up. His blue eyes were bright as he looked at her quizzically.

"Cover me," Wren muttered to Bryant. She didn't wait for confirmation and instead skirted back out from behind the bar and marched right up to Murphy's open side. Once there, she reached into his lap, shoved Genie's hand aside, and grabbed him by the collar of his sweater. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Hey!" Genie cried indignantly. "For Christssake, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Both Murphy and Wren glanced at Genie. "Lord's name," they growled in unison. Then Wren yanked Murphy from his stool and hauled him through the bar, despite Genie's protesting.

They passed through the kitchen, a noisy machine of orders being called, sizzling fryers and grills, and raucous laughter. Wren afforded a tight smile to those they passed but she remained silent otherwise. Reaching behind her, she caught Murphy's hand and pulled him close as they ducked out of the kitchen and into the rain.

Leading him to a dark, shadowy spot beneath the awning of the neighbouring business, she pushed him into the brick wall and pinned him there with her hands clutching his broad shoulders as she stared up at him.

"Girl," he breathed, staring down at her with wondering eyes. "Again, I ask: something bothering you?"

"Shut the fuck up, Murphy," Wren snapped before pushing up on her toes and kissing him hard.


	4. Chapter 4

He hadn't been the least bit interested in the redhead – she wasn't his type, more Connor's. But the fact that the redhead's interest in him was making Wren all kinds of crazy was working to his advantage. Wren was aggressive, and he dared to say possessive as well, and the closer Genie got to him the angrier his little bird became. He wasn't sure how she was going to assert her position, so when she tore him from his stool and out from Genie's clutches, he was pleasantly surprised, and even more so when his back collided with a brick wall in an alley and her mouth crashed into his.

She tasted like Jamieson…or maybe that was him…either way, her tongue was winding along his as one of her hands snared the hair at the back of his head to hold him steady while her other hand slid down his chest to his belt buckle and deftly unhooked it. The button fly to his jeans was next and then her lips were gone, replaced with cool damp air and…

_Hail Mary, full of grace_. She'd fallen to her knees faster than his whiskeyed brain could compute, and taken his length into her mouth without hesitation. He hissed as she sucked him hard, relentlessly, and when his hips threatened to buck, her hands shoved him back against the wall. Sure, she may have been on her knees in front of him, but she was still in charge.

He balled his hands into tight fists at his side. Nothing would be better right at that moment than to sink his fingers through Wren's pale blonde hair, but he had a feeling that she would stop what she was doing. Instead, he let his head loll back and connect with the wall with a dull _thud_, and he closed his eyes, losing himself to the rhythm Wren was creating. Her tongue slid up and down with every pass and her fingers tightened their grip on his hips as she swallowed more of him down. Soon enough, he felt the very tip of his cock sliding down her throat, tight and wet and hot. His skin began to crawl. He panted hotly and stared down at the top of her head as she bobbed back and forth.

Drawing back to the tip with a particularly hard suck, Wren held him between her lips for a moment, fluttering her tongue over the tip again and again. Then she tilted her head up and looked at him, and triumph on her face was obvious. Murphy was powerless and he whimpered before whispering, "Please, don't fecking stop!"

"Who's your girl, Murph?" she murmured against his erection. Her tongue flashed out and swiped at the moisture leaking from the tip.

He clenched his teeth and slammed his head back into the brick wall again. "Ah! Christ, girl, you are, _you are_!" he stammered quickly.

She smirked with a raised eyebrow. "Don't forget it." She bent back to her task.

Thirty seconds later, Murphy was crying out hoarsely and coming down her throat.

* * *

Genie frowned as Wren appeared back in the bar, a bounce in her step as she took her place filling orders next to the other bartender. Murphy wandered back in a few moments later, looking pleasantly dazed. He was flushed in the cheekbones and his eyes were glassy, his movements fluid and lazy. Genie looked back to Wren. Then to Murphy. And then back to Wren.

Murphy slid into his stool and immediately lit a cigarette, hauling off a few healthy drags before snagging his glass of Guinness and downing the last half in one gulp. He exhaled heavily after he was done and sagged bonelessly onto the bar with half a grin on his face.

"Another Guinness, Murph?" Wren called out as she passed with a handful of clean glasses.

"Aye, girl," he sighed.

Genie sat up straight at the shortened version of Murphy's name that Wren had used. And she hadn't missed the way Murphy called Wren 'girl', like it was a term of endearment. His use of 'lass' wasn't half as hot as was his use of 'girl'. She began to fume. Turning on her seat towards Murphy, Genie fixed him with a hard stare.

"What were you two talking about?" she asked sharply.

Murphy raised one shoulder in a shrug and then shook his head. "Talk? Nah, lass, there wasn't any talking involved." Murphy caught Wren's eye as she placed his fresh glass of Guinness before him and he winked, making Wren smile.

Genie gaped at the pair. "Do you two _know_ each other?" she hissed.

Murphy took a sip of Guinness and nodded. "Course I do, lass. She's me girl."

* * *

"I was hopin' ta see a fight," Murphy admitted as he gathered Wren under his arm exiting _Grayson's_.

Wren lightly jabbed Murphy's ribs with her elbow and giggled. "I bet you would. I'd totally win, by the way."

Murphy exhaled smoke through his nose and pitched the finished cigarette to a puddle at the curb. "Aye, I reckon you would. You play dirty."

Wren frowned up at him. "I thought you liked it dirty?"

Murphy grinned and hummed, nodding his head before yanking Wren to a halt and angling his head down towards hers. "Aye. Dirty. An' angry," he breathed across her mouth before pressing his lips softly to hers.

They started walking again in amicable silence until Wren spoke up: "If she's not your type, what were you two so buddy-buddy about there? You don't buy that many shots of Jamieson for just anybody," she pointed out.

"Half Irish – her grandfather was born in County Meath. That's just north of where Conn and I are from."

"Ah," Wren nodded with a roll of her eyes. "I always forget that the Irish tend to rove in large groups of whoever claims to be even a fraction. If I told you I was one sixty-fourth Irish, would you be happy?"

This stopped Murphy short and he fixed Wren with a pensive look. "Are ye?" he gulped.

Wren snorted at his anxious tone. "No," she answered flatly, pulling out from under Murphy's arm and continuing up the sidewalk. "Does that make a difference?"

Murphy growled and jogged to catch her up. "Not likely," he answered, snagging her hand and making her spin round to face him. "Just makes you more susceptible to Irish charm." He grinned.

"And what about you?" Wren asked as they crossed the street and turned towards her place. "Do you come from one of those hardcore Irish families that frown upon their sons not marrying a proper Irish lass?"

"Can't be sure," Murphy answered smoothly. "I've never been in a position to marry anyone before."

Wren eyed him sceptically. "Really? You've never been in love? How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-eight – and no, I've never been in love. Should I have been?"

Wren pulled a face and shook her head. "I don't recommend it."

"Ooh, there's a story here, girl. Want to share?"

"Not really." Wren stopped outside of the all night grocer. "I need to pick up coffee. And my fridge is pretty sparse; I believe that you mentioned you'd be making breakfast?"

Murphy shook his head, once more impressed by Wren's ability to change the subject. "Aye, I did mention it. Got it covered," he explained, gesturing to the rucksack over one shoulder.

"You've been carrying around bacon and eggs for the last four hours?" she asked with a giggle.

"Not exactly." He held the door open and followed her into the shop.

"Pancakes? Is it pancakes? I think I have maple syrup," she trailed off as she wracked her brain for what was in her cupboards.

"It's not pancakes," Murphy assured her. "Do ye have any Guinness at yer flat?"

Wren stopped and gave Murphy an exasperated sigh. "What kind of girl do you think I am? Of _course_ I have Guinness. And Bushmill's," she added with a cheeky smile.

"Orange juice?"

"Er…no, I don't think so."

Murphy nodded. "I'll go grab it. Meet you at the check out."


	5. Chapter 5

It had started raining again while they toured the grocery store so Murphy took the bag holding coffee, orange juice, and chocolate milk from Wren and stored it in his rucksack. They walked quickly, hand in hand, the last few blocks, but were completely soaked by the time they made it to the building where Wren's loft was.

She shivered in the elevator and Murphy's eyes were drawn to the goose bumps on her arms and the way the soaked material of her shirt clung to her breasts. He could very clearly make out her nipples, stiff with cold, and he didn't hesitate to drop his bag and corner her in the elevator.

His hands cupped her breasts as his mouth brushed hers. As quickly as the kiss had started, it deepened, tongues winding, teeth tugging, all the while his thumbs rolling over the peaks of her breasts until she was panting into his mouth. Her hips rocked shamelessly into his and he pulled his lips from hers very briefly.

"I've been wantin' to do that since I first saw ye tonight," Murphy growled. His hands slipped down to the hemline of her skirt and pressed against the cool flesh of her thighs before fingering the tops of her boots. "Don't leave much to the imagination, does it?" he chided.

Wren raised an eyebrow. "You'd be surprised."

Murphy countered her look with one of his own. "Oh, really?" he asked as his fingertips skimmed up her bare thighs and disappeared beneath her skirt.

She shivered at the coolness of his touch and tilted her head back with a sigh. He searched higher and higher, wondering when he might encounter…

"Aw, hell, girl," he groaned, pressing his forehead to her neck. "Yer not wearing any underwear."

"Hmm," Wren confirmed. "Not anymore." She twisted in his grasp and let her legs widen, pushing the heat and dampness between her thighs into Murphy's hand. "Touch me, Murph. Use your fingers on me."

Pulling his face from her neck, he stared down at her, her dark blue eyes blazing with lust. Licking his lips, he drew just the pads of his fingers along the seam of her, skimming the bare skin and encountering the first flush of wetness. His tongue touched hers just as gently and he felt her shake in his arms. On the second pass he turned his hand, this time sinking his thumb down at the top of her sex to press against her clit – hard enough to let her know he was there, but not enough to slake the desire scorching her veins. He growled as her fingers sank into his hair and pulled roughly.

"Fuck, Murph," she hissed, licking her lips. "Please. More. _Please_." She didn't care that she sounded desperate – she _was_. Desperate for him, his touch, his taste, kiss, scent, rough whiskered cheeks and strong hands…

The elevator stopped and Wren whimpered as Murphy's hands slid back out from under her skirt. "C'mon," he whispered hotly. His mouth landed on hers again, soft and urgent.

He pressed against her as she worked the lock on her door; the evidence of his arousal was crushed against her ass and the rough stubble on his chin scraped the nape of her neck as his mouth wandered across her skin. "Ye taste like the rain," he muttered, and his fingertips danced down the naked length of her spine to land on her ass and squeeze firmly.

They crashed through the door, his rucksack and her purse forgotten. Their mouths battled as they stumbled through the main floor until finally he had her pressed against the kitchen counter. He tangled his fingers through her hair and drew his mouth along her jaw, to her ear, and down her throat to her collarbone. He pulled away abruptly and spun her so that he was once more pressed against her ass and the edge of the counter was digging into her hipbones. A soft cry escaped her lips and her hands connected with the countertop as she bucked back into him. He wasted no time and snaked one hand up the front of her shirt to tug sharply at first one nipple and then the other. His other hand worked the button of her skirt open and dove down to find her clit hard and slippery.

Another sharp cry tore from her throat as his fingers ignited the icy hot flames of pleasure licking over her skin. She was wild, reaching behind her to yank at his hair, pulling his mouth to hers at an awkward and satisfying angle. Sinking her teeth into his bottom lip she moaned hotly and grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking it up.

"Clothes off," she panted, tugging the damp denim of her skirt down her hips and letting it fall to the ground. "Hurry," she urged, trying to turn in his arms.

Murphy grunted at her eagerness and spun them once more so that now Wren was face to face with the top of her table. She heard the cool click of Murphy's belt opening, and the rustle of worn denim and soft cotton followed. His shirt sailed past her and landed somewhere on the floor near the living room. She had just enough time to pull her blouse over her head when Murphy's hand connected with her shoulder, pushing her back down to the table. Her hands were still tangled in her shirt and she would have protested had Murphy not chosen that moment to sink his cock fully inside, effectively sucking the breath from her lungs.

"Christ, you're wet," he murmured almost reverently. He moaned as he slowly drew from her body and then pushed his way back in against her clenching muscles. He worked her pussy like that, diving in slowly and dragging his cock back out, until he felt her start to shake and her breathing became choppy.

Her eyes rolled back as she felt his cock sliding into her. An inch at a time he went at her, rocking his hips until her ass was pressed against his pelvis. He bucked into her gently, barely moving, but it was enough to pull a whine from her mouth. Her fingers clenched the damp material of her shirt and her elbows ground against the wood of the table, but the feeling of Murphy inside of her, pushing up into her limits, erased all other sensation.

His fingertips glided down from her neck and shoulder where he held her and skimmed along her flanks until he had her hips cupped in his hands. Then he began to move more purposefully, pushing her off of his length only to drag her back into his pelvis. Each thrust was punctuated by a choppy cry from Wren and a deep grunt from Murphy, and each of them grew louder with every pass.

Murphy hissed through his teeth as he stroked double time. One hand slid round from her hip, fingertips dancing over where they joined and then slipping up to rub furiously at her clit. "Feckin' come," he moaned hoarsely, drawing his other hand back and smacking her soundly on one ass cheek. "Come on, Wren, come fer me."

Wren's moan was drawn out and her thighs shuddered at the commanding tone of Murphy's voice. "Yes," she hissed, her eyes squeezing shut. Her hands braced against the table and allowed her to push back and meet him with more force. "Harder," she wailed as a choppy breath sailed out of her lungs.

His pelvis crashed into her ass, which in turn drove her harder into the edge of the table. Her elbows skidded. She didn't care. She heard Murphy behind her, panting, grunting, coming apart at the seams, and all the while his fingers stroked and slid and strummed in a desperate attempt to have her finish before him. He owed her that much after that morning. "Please," he begged, straining to hold himself back. His hips slowed and he concentrated on the force of his thrusts, curving his chest over her back until his lips hovered at her ear and the stubble of his chin and jaw scraped at her skin.

She shivered as his hot breath heaved in her ear and the brush of his beard against the sensitive skin of her neck made her back arch. The muscles that were clamping at Murphy squeezed harder and her eyes slammed shut as she chased her orgasm down with rabid determination.

"That's it," Murphy growled, prodding her along. "So feckin' tight round' me, girl. Make me lose my mind," he mumbled.

"Ah…shit…_Murph_!" She suddenly yelped and froze and Murphy took the opportunity to yank her back against him, pushing his cock as deep as it would go and holding her there as she began to quake around him.

"Oh, fuck me," Murphy groaned. He hissed sharply and then grunted, and then thrusted deep and sharp. Once, twice, thr – nope. Before he could get the third thrust in, he came, hot and fast, and mumbled incoherently into her hair before stalling behind her.

In a daze, she felt him slip from her, and vaguely registered the dull _thud_ as he collapsed on the floor behind her. When her breathing had returned to normal, she dared a glanced back over her shoulder and found Murphy sprawled on his back on her kitchen floor, shirtless, his pants around his ankles, and one shoe off. His chest heaved as he caught his breath and his lips moved softly, muttering to himself, to her, to God, who knew?

Wren giggled. At the light sound, Murphy cracked an eye open and found the blonde leaning back against the table, shaking her hands from her shirt and still clad in her knee-high boots. It was almost enough to make him hard again – almost. He needed a rest. Maybe another beer. He sighed and stretched, winking at Wren. "Gonna need a drink afta' tha'," he droned thickly.

"Hmmm," Wren lazily agreed and took a second to slip her boots off before padding across the kitchen naked. The blast of cool air from the refrigerator was delightful and her skin pulled into gooseflesh once more as she reached in and grabbed two cans of Guinness. She popped the cans open and poured them into two glasses, staring at the rush of dark espresso foam. The click of a Zippo sounded a few seconds later and she turned to find Murphy still sprawled, spread eagle, with a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"I 'aven't felt that good since David O'Leary scored the penalty kick against Romania in 1990," Murphy breathed dreamily, smoke curling out of his nose.(1)

Wren stood over him and waved the glass of beer over Murphy's line of vision. "C'mon, Murph," she sang, "get up!"

Murphy wrinkled his nose at her teasing but sat up with a long groan and reached for the glass offered to him.

Wren smiled. "Good boy. Now, roll over and beg," she joked.

"Christ, girl," Murphy muttered, "ye had me panting and howling not five minutes ago. Almost ad' me playin' dead. What else do ye want from me?" He fixed her with a narrowed gaze and a grin.

She reached out and ruffled his hair. "I need a shower," she announced with a shiver.

"Hmm," Murphy agreed, taking another healthy sip of beer. "Need someone to wash yer back?" he called out to her naked backside as she wandered from the kitchen.

"Among other things," she answered as she ascended the stairs.

He sat for a moment, listening as she rummaged about in her room upstairs. Finally, he heaved himself from the floor with a groan, wincing at tight muscles. He scanned the kitchen and living room for damage, gathering their discarded clothes in one hand and their bags in the other. When the front door was locked, his rucksack unpacked and contents stashed in the fridge, he took the stairs two at a time and entered Wren's bedroom just in time to hear the shower start.

* * *

He washed her back, like he had offered to, in slow, sweeping strokes; up her spine and out across her shoulders, then back down and around her hips. Little by little, she melted back into him until his chest was mashed against her back. His lips wandered gently over the nape of her neck and the shell of her ear and he slid the soapy sponge to the front of her body, washing down over her pert breasts, between them, across her belly and the tops of her thighs. Each pass of his hands did the opposite of what she was hoping for – instead of lulling her into a deep, boneless sleep, every nerve ending came alive.

"_Ba mhaith liom a bhlaiseadh leat aris_," he groaned softly, his fingertips skidding back up over her nipples. "_Ta tu cosuil le siucra ar mo theanga_."(2)

She was hyper-aware of him standing behind her, muttering incantations in Irish Gaelic in that low, lilting voice. She didn't know what he was saying but it didn't really matter. She whimpered just slightly, turning her head into his shoulder and kissing the warm, damp flesh there. She shifted, turning in his arms, and raised her lips to his chin, sucking the water that rained down there. Her hands splayed over his chest and then up, over his neck to wind in his thick, dark hair. He grinned and pushed the damp strands of blonde hair from her face before his hands glided down her slick skin and caught the backs of her thighs. He lifted her easily and backed her into the low shelf at the end of the shower stall, pushing aside the various bottles of shampoo and body wash. The tiles were cold, a shock to her over-heated flesh. With hooded eyes she watched Murphy sink to his knees, using his shoulders to push hers wider.

She held him steady with a hand in his hair and closed her eyes to the rough-slick feel of his tongue gliding along the delicate folds of her sex. Steam rose around her, adding to the cloudiness of her senses. His lips pulled her clit into his mouth, sucking gently, and then his tongue flickered back out, swiping against her before sinking in deep and slow. Her back arched and she pulled him closer, drawing her legs up and sliding them over his shoulders. Her toes flexed against his muscles and urged him along; her breathy sighs made him shudder and she felt it right to her core.

She was close. He knew it, he tasted it, and he pursued it, fisting his erection in one hand and pushing against her inner thigh with the other, holding her open to his mouth. Of course he wanted her again; he always wanted her, but she was tired. The fluid motion of her limbs, despite the tension in her hips and belly, was indication that once he threw her into completion, he'd probably have to carry her to the bed.

Each breath drew pleasure deeper into her veins and Wren relaxed into its vibrations, rolling her hips gently to meet Murphy's mouth. Her orgasm hit her quick but soft, dissolving into a sharp pinpoint of pleasure punctuated by a soft cry that bounced off the shower tiles. Sweet warmth drenched his tongue and Murphy hummed his approval against her. She heard his breath hitch; seconds later he groaned and she knew that he was coming. A soft, satisfied smile formed on her lips as she relaxed, letting the last tremors of pleasure roll through her body.

He shut the water off and gathered her into his arms, setting her down on her feet long enough to wrap a towel around her body and get most of the water off. She hummed and sighed pleasantly, looking at him with lazy, sated eyes. After towelling her hair as best he could, he couldn't help but grin at the sleepy expression on her face. He turned her towards the bedroom and gave her a little push.

"_A chodladh le tu mo ghra, chun aisling._" They both collapsed on her bed and curled into the duvet and pillows. He stretched out beside her, his palm warm on her back as she drifted off to sleep. "_Feichfidh me tar eis dui tar maidin._"(3)

* * *

"I can't believe you carried mashed potatoes around Southie for half the night last night," Wren chuckled from her spot on the couch. They were sprawled out on the couch, each leaning back against an arm, their legs intertwined along the middle cushions.

Murphy glanced up from the paper he was reading and grinned. "You wanted breakfast," he pointed out before turning back to the paper.

Wren stretched, groaning at the fullness in her belly, and swung her feet into Murphy's lap, nudging him playfully. "It was _really_ good," she praised.

"Ye can thank me ma," he mumbled absently as a frown marred his features.

Wren sat up at the change in his usually carefree outlook. "Something wrong?"

Murphy growled and folded the paper before tossing it onto the coffee table. "Fecking murders in this city are unbelievable."

Wren leaned over and grabbed up the discarded newspaper, scanning the pages until she found the story Murphy was referring to. Sure enough, another hit by the Italian mob had resulted not only in the death of a few mafia lackies, but three innocent bystanders, as well. "They have been getting worse as of late," Wren pointed out.

"Should just fecking put them all out of their misery. Kill em all," he muttered darkly.

"Hey," Wren interjected, setting the paper aside and crawling up Murphy's legs. "Unless you're a cop – and you said you weren't – there's not much you can do about it. Actually, if you _were_ a cop, there wouldn't be much you could do about, either." She situated herself in Murphy's lap and combed her fingers back through his dark hair. "Human nature is a hard thing to swallow."

"Aye," Murphy mumbled, closing his eyes at Wren's touch. He opened them moments later, looking up at her from under dark lashes. "Take my mind off of it?"

Wren smiled slyly. Murphy was already lifting her and tugging her lounge pants down her hips. He shifted beneath her, unbuttoned his fly and pulled his cock free before settling her in his lap again. She rolled her hips up and hovered her lips over his before sinking down on him slowly.

"Ah, girl," he sighed, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Ye could make me forget me own name."

She smiled and kissed him into silence, save for the heaving sighs and panting. He barely had to move, left it all up to her rocking and riding, clutching at his shoulders as she ground her hips down against him. Their tongues wound together and they came at the same time, clinging to each other in the still quiet of the loft.

* * *

1) The premise for this line is actually from the film _Trainspotting_. If you've seen the movie, you know what I'm talking about. And if you know your Irish soccer, you know the goal that Murphy is referring to - O'Leary scored his penalty kick against Romania at the World Cup in Italy in 1990, resulting in a victory over Romania.

2) Bastardized Irish Gaelic: "I want to taste you again. You're like sugar on my tongue"

3) Bastardized Irish Gaelic: "To bed with you, my love, to dreams. I'll wake you in the morning."


End file.
